


To be a Wonder

by dilangley



Series: Bruce and Diana in DCEU [1]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Character Study, Concurrent with Film, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilangley/pseuds/dilangley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cliche or not, Diana felt him before she saw him. How ironic to be in a room with Superman and yet be unable to shake the presence of a single, ordinary man."</p><p>A decidedly Bruce/Diana slant on Diana Prince's character throughout the film. </p><p>[oneshot]</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be a Wonder

Cliche or not, Diana felt him before she saw him. How ironic to be in a room with Superman and yet be unable to shake the presence of a single, ordinary man. In two lithe strides, he crossed the distance on the floor between the waiter carrying a tray of drinks and the space where he intended to stand. His wine glass dangled in a thick hand, and he chuckled at the appropriate times. No one called him out as a fraud, and yet on some level, she surmised that was just what he was. He played the socialite, but his acting was not perfect. A muscle in his neck twitched every time he swallowed. Perhaps he sensed that someone had seen his brief disappearing act earlier, that mock bathroom trip that had led him in the opposite direction of the lavatory.

“Excuse me,” Diana touched the arm of an elderly woman standing near her, laying her fingers in the crook of the woman’s elbow gently. “Do you know the name of the man over there?”

The grey-haired woman turned in the direction Diana’s head indicated. “That’s Bruce Wayne, dear. He’s from Gotham City. One of the richest men in the world, don’t you know,” she spoke with a brisk Northern accent, clipping her words.

Diana watched him without shame for a moment before turning her head towards another millionaire. Lex Luthor clapped his hands together as he spoke, rubbing skin on skin hard enough to create a staccato accompaniment for his speech. 

“Knowledge without power is paradoxical.” Mr. Luthor’s face vibrated as his hand-rubbing moved faster. He was frenetic. Diana turned away from the farce and walked in the same direction from which Mr. Wayne had returned. Her heels clicked on the marbled floor, and even with the meltdown occurring on the stage, partygoers could not help but turn to watch her leave. Diana felt her beauty the same way she felt her speed, her strength, and her flight. It was a gift bestowed upon her by the gods in order that she might better serve her people. To take pride in one’s gifts did not make sense, yet she had spent many years amongst mankind. Wearing a luxe dress and feeling the admiring gaze of the humans pleased her.

Down the steps, past the kitchen, and to the left, she saw a control room, paneled with technology that was beyond her understanding. She opened the glass door and stepped inside to investigate, running her fingers along the wiring. A thin recording device dangled from a glorified USB drive, flashing a silent 100%. She tugged it loose and slipped the cold metal under the shoulder strap of her red gown. 

Tapping her way back up the stairs, she passed Mr. Wayne, no doubt returning for the device he had left behind. Though she was proud of herself, she had to admit that passing him on the stairs, such a simple and innocent act, made her pulse quicken. Her lips curved into a smile. 

By virtue of what she was taking from him, she knew she would be making his acquaintance soon.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Bruce Wayne had located her even sooner than she had expected. At another gala, this time for the procurement of rare artifacts, he had found her and demanded the stolen item. Little had he known that she had located him first. She had tucked the device in the glove compartment of his car, a vehicle that somehow managed to be ostentatious in spite of being plain black. 

Stealing the device had not benefitted her. She had little use for codes and passwords she could not hack. Mr. Wayne had sought her out that evening, flattered her with his eyes and flayed her with his tongue. She was unaccustomed to words as base as thief being applied to her. His flippancy, the strange way he smiled without smiling, should have offended and on some level, it did. But it also made her also want to smile without smiling. She had intended to ask him for help hacking into the encryptions on the drive, but she could not force the admission of weakness from her lips in the face of his playboy arrogance. They had parted without even a goodbye.

Luckily, Mr. Wayne had a weakness himself: beautiful women. Or rather, so it seemed because Diana had received the unsought information within weeks. Never before had an email so devoid of emotion read as a flirtation, but from its cheeky subject line to the obvious admiration of the photograph he had found, his text was enough to make her blush, reaching her fingers up to touch the base of her throat above her bathrobe. Her skin was flushed warm.

She gazed at her photograph, drinking it in. She had never seen it before. She remembered when it was taken by a wayward, smiling journalist. Those pictured had fought beside her in World War I, and the memory of shared atrocities burned. 

Beside her frozen image, Steve Trevor stood. His unsmiling face revealed none of who he had been. A century has passed since the shutter flipped and created this keepsake of a man. Steve was now dead and gone, a man who had never known what had happened to the wonderful woman hero he had warred with. When she took off her suit for the last time, she became Diana Prince, and Diana Prince did not know Steve Trevor. She dragged her eyes away from him. Steve had married, had children, lived, loved, and ultimately died. His life had been full, and even an immortal life was too short to mourn for those who were not lost.

Her own image sent tingles across her skin. How recklessly strong she looked, wearing a military jacket over her own proud costume. How ugly the world around her had been. She had believed then that simply by donning the proud red, white, and blue of America, a land that professed to believe in freedom and God (though not hers), she could step into Man’s World and change it for the better. She had believed super strength could bend an entire planet to her will. 

She was older now, wiser. Peace could not be forced. Until humanity wanted it for itself, she knew it would not happen. Superman must learn similar lessons, and in time, she knew he, too, would give up his true self and just live as one of them. Humans were too cruel to anyone different.

She scrolled back down to see Mr. Wayne’s words again: Who are you?

Diana cocked her head and wished she could ask him the same question. Wayward billionaires lazily leisuring away their lives did not sneak into control rooms and steal information on meta-humans. 

Ordinary men did not leave her skin broken out in goosebumps hours after a simple touch.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The creature bellowed into the night sky, absorbing electrical pulses and forcing them back out in waves of orange light. Its grey skin rippled with new spikes. It loomed over downtown. Diana stood on the concrete rooftop, looking forward to her foe. 

On a plane to Italy, she had seen the news, nervous journalists grasping for calm with both hands as they explained that an unidentifiable monster was unleashed upon Gotham City. With trembling hands in an airport bathroom, she had slipped off her traveling dress and pulled out the magical metal that made her into Wonder Woman. Hard as steel, it folded under her hands like fabric, and as she stood, naked, in the cold bathroom stall, she shivered. A century ago, she had folded it up for the last time and turned her back on her role as a savior of men. And yet, she had never stopped carrying the outfit with her.

As she exited that bathroom a few moments later, she caught a flash of Wonder Woman walking by the fingerprint-smeared mirror. The Amazon warrior walked with pride. Underneath, she bore a flush of shame that it had taken her so long to act.

Now on the rooftop battlefield, Superman stood to her right and looked over, even in the midst of the chaos, to assess her. She saw in his eyes a sense of approval, but she was unaffected. Naturally he would approve of someone with her poise and combat skills. His praise stood as simple fact.

“Is she with you?” He asked over her head, speaking to Batman. 

“I thought she was with you,” Batman’s voice burred low, artificially deep, but familiarity rang against the inside of her skull. The moment of quips and laughs when they fought for the world bothered her, but she did not have time to correct the men on either side of her. The creature roared towards them.

Amazonian instinct overtook her. Athenian courage and Artemian boldness controlled her actions, but the pleasure of battle was all her own. Slashing her sword against the creature, she felt no fear, even when she alone seemed to face the abomination. When Superman resumed his warfare, approaching rapidly with a spear in hand, she intuited his intentions. Twirling her lasso, she loosed it. Her aim struck true, and she grunted with the effort of holding the creature. Digging her heels in, she did what she had long ago lost the habit of doing: prayed to Hera for strength. 

Her muscles tightened, hardening, and just when she thought she could hold on no longer, Superman plunged the spear into the creature. The cosmic energy released seemed to shake the world, and even before she reached the site of the destruction, she knew neither participant could have survived.

It was only as she helped Batman pull Superman’s body down that she recognized who the masked vigilante had to be. His gloved hands crossed over hers to offer her help she did not need in moving the corpse. In closeness, she noticed the cleft of his chin and sharp plane of his jaw. Many men had strong faces, but this one could only belong to Bruce Wayne. He was Batman.

A crying young woman, red-haired and frightened, collapsed onto the chest of the fallen Superman, and Diana recognized her as the journalist Lois Lane, famed for her unorthodox relationship with the Man of Steel. Diana knelt beside her.

“No one could have fought more bravely.”

Lois looked up, tear-streaked, and her pale eyes filled again, unfocused. “How could he leave me?”

Diana looked away, unable to address such a question. Death’s mysterious touch had little to do with humanity’s ways, and to attempt to understand it on a mortal plane was useless. Bruce, however, answered.

“He saved the world, Miss Lane.”

“I was his world,” Lois whispered as she melted down against his chest. Her words were so quiet Diana had to concentrate to hear them.

Diana thought of Themiscrya. There citizens accepted loss as an honorable part of battle. Each woman kept grief private, honoring publicly only the value of duty and sacrifice. Diana shifted on her feet, uncomfortable with the shameless sadness this young woman was displaying.

Batman reached out to place his hand on Diana’s shoulder. The rough leather of his glove against her bare skin made her aware of tenderness there. She would bruise from this battle.

“Thank you for suiting up, Wonder Woman.” His tone held no reverence, but his use of the old name conveyed respect.

“You’re welcome, Bruce,” she replied. He flinched behind her, and in spite of the devastation around them and death at their feet, she turned to look at him. “As you suggested, I have been out of the fray too long. When an alien with powers such as Superman fights for humanity, I can ignore my own cowardice. When an ordinary human such as yourself does so, I must reevaluate.”

He straightened up as if he wished to reply but thought better of the time and place. They could discuss together what this new reality would look like at another time, another moment. Now was the moment to feel the loss of a warrior and begin the first small steps forward in a world without Superman.

Bruce did not remove his hand from her shoulder. She found his touch comforting, a puzzling feeling since she did not know for what she needed comfort. She only knew that he made her feel it.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

American funerals relished in macabre memorials. Diana appreciated neither Superman’s funeral nor Clark Kent’s, but she attended the latter dutifully. The tribute penned to him in The Daily Planet had been touching. His life as a man had been gentle and responsible; the beauty in that was not lost on her. To best live human required subtlety. 

Apart from one cryptic conversation, she had spoken to Bruce little during the quiet Kansas funeral, but afterwards, she had received an email from him asking if she would join him for dinner before they returned to Gotham and Metropolis. She should have put him off for another time, but instead she rescheduled her flight.

Though she would tell herself Wonder Woman needed to meet with Batman, she knew the real reason for her acceptance was Diana’s desire to have dinner with Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. I know. We're supposed to all have hated this film. You know what? I didn't. Did it need a lot of work? Sure. Were Batfleck and Wonder Godot fantastic? Sure were!


End file.
